


A Not So Bad Day After All

by CaraLee



Series: Voltron Bingo [4]
Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Blood, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Let Shiro Rest 2kForever, Platonic Cuddling, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Scars, Shiro (Voltron) Has Issues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-29
Updated: 2018-11-29
Packaged: 2019-09-02 04:34:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,828
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16779676
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CaraLee/pseuds/CaraLee
Summary: On good days, Shiro is able to join the others on the now-routine post-battle trips down to medical where Coran will check them over and provide any needed medical care. On good days, the only injuries are  a few bumps and bruises from being tossed around in their Lions; despite the safety harnessesToday is not a good day.





	A Not So Bad Day After All

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the Voltron Bingo Challenge. I got squares from three different cards with this one!
> 
> This takes place in mid season one or so, after they have left Arus but before the wormhole.
> 
> Much thanks to my beta, fandomanddenial, who is apparently down with last minute read-throughs at 1 AM.

On good days, Shiro is able to join the others on the now-routine post-battle trips down to medical where Coran will check them over and provide any needed medical care. On good days, the only injuries are a few bumps and bruises from being tossed around in their Lions; despite the safety harnesses. On good days Shiro will drag a reluctant Keith along and laugh silently as Lance clowns around and strikes shirtless poses while Hunk sighs the sighs of the long-suffering, Pidge rolls her eyes, and Keith is generally confused.

On good days.

Today is not a good day.

On Bad Days they often have to leave their lions, which in and of itself is enough to send Shiro’s usually high stress levels and hypervigilance through the roof. He commands a team of children in a war that spans galaxies and it is always at least a little reassuring to know they are encased in several tons of semi-magical somewhat-sentient metal. (There is a lot of guessing when it comes to what exactly the Lions are and what they are capable of.) Take them out of their Lions and all that is left is a few layers of Altean materials between the enemy and their fragile, all-too-human bodies.

Today, rather than follow the tactics they have utilized up until now, skirting around the edge of the Empire and harassing and haranguing smaller bases where they could, they struck at one of the largest outposts in the outer regions. Large enough to have a Galra settlement.

Large enough to have an arena.

Not an especially large one. Not like the Central Command arena where Shiro had been held. Had  _ performed _ . But it smells the same: of the blood and fluids from countless unfortunates. It echoes the same and the sand shifts treacherously underfoot the way Shiro still has nightmares about.

And that is where they fight.

The Galra garrison had rallied in the arena and it is there that the Paladins are forced to confront them. Shiro feels himself slipping more than once, the present bleeding into the fractured memories of a half-remembered past, the small army of sentries and handful of living breathing Galra becoming faces he does not know but feel horrifyingly familiar deep in his gut.

It is a long and exhausting battle and by the end of it he has more blood on his hands; and, sickeningly, so does Lance, who makes a shot that saves Pidge’s life but ends one of their enemies’. Part of Shiro is horrified that he is turning children into soldiers who can kill without flinching. Another part of him feels numb and disconnected, as if all of this is happening in a movie or storybook. Unreal. Not him. Not his kids.

They free more than a dozen slaves and prisoners but are mere vargas too late for a good dozen more. Sacrificed for the vain glory of a cruel empire and the entertainment of its people.

Shiro is not sure if his shaking is from remembered fear or present rage. Perhaps it is both.

He slips away as soon as they are back on board the castle ship and hurries down the hall to his quarters. He can’t face the sterility of the med-bay today. Not when he knows the white and blue will twist into dim purple and Coran’s warm, caring smile will fade behind the memory of blank masks and cruel, impersonal, consideration.

He would force himself anyway, Lance will need reassurance. But Hunk had already wrapped him up in a tight hug by the time Shiro made it out of his Lion and has not shown any signs of letting go. Shiro will check up on him in the morning. And Coran likes Lance, he’ll take care of him too. Pidge is sticking close to them, shaken but not cowed by her close call. Shiro will keep an eye on her but for now she doesn’t need him.

The only other Paladin to face a flesh and blood opponent had been Keith and Shiro knows from long experience that approaching Keith too soon will only drive him to hide. Better to give him time to process in his own head and then offer him a quiet shoulder to lean on. 

He makes it to his room and presses his human hand against the sensor to open the door. It slides out of his way and he is faced with the darkness of the room itself. His steps through the door and then freezes, breath catching in his throat in the split second before the lights come on, automatically responding to his presence. It’s too small, too empty, too dark, too...something that he cannot name but knots in his chest and crushes his lungs.

“Shiro?”

He startles and whirls around. Keith is standing a few steps outside the doorway, frowning at him in concern. “You’re bleeding.”

Shiro looks down. There is a gash along his side in the space between where the breastplate and belt provide extra protection. One of the Galra had an energy blade that the armored weave of the undersuit much not have been enough to stop. “Oh.”

He knees are suddenly a lot shakier and he locks them to keep from falling. But he doesn’t need to because Keith is ducking under his arm and helping him support his weight. He blinks down at the messy head of hair. Keith is taller than his chin now, that must have happened while he was gone. He missed a lot in a year.

Keith guides him towards the bed and helps him sit down on the edge. His frown shifts slightly into the one that means he’s focusing intently on something. He hovers for a second, before he moves towards the closet. “You have a first aid kit?” he asks.

Shiro huffs and nods, leaning back against the wall at the foot of the bed. Now that he’s aware it's there, the gash burns with a throbbing pain and the stickiness of the blood under the bodysuit is making his spine crawl. Or maybe that is the creeping dread and panic telling him that he absolutely  _ cannot _ let his guard down. Not now. Not injured.

_ Keith isn’t a threat _ . He firmly tells his instincts. Or tries to, it doesn’t seem to be all that successful judging by the constant thud of  _ fight, defend, kill _ echoing his heartbeat and the roaring of his pulse in his ears. Keith is on his knees by the closet, fiddling with the Altean box Shiro has stashed away to try and figure out how to open it. What Shiro  _ should  _ see is his little brother. The only family he has. Someone he would protect with his life.

What he  _ does _ see are weak spots and vulnerabilities. Places to strike before he himself can be attacked.

For a moment he thinks he might actually be sick over his own brokenness.

Then Keith hauls himself wearily to his feet and the jolt of adrenaline that shoots through Shiro at the movement is enough to shake him out of the moment. For now. Keith steps up to sit on the bed beside him, his hands full of bandages and what Coran assured Shiro is an antiseptic that will not harm humans. (Unlike the first attempt at finding one, which had Hunk breaking out in hives.)

“Do you need help-?” Keith trails off and gestures awkwardly at Shiro’s torso. Pulled somewhat from his daze, Shiro realizes that Keith means to help him treat the wound.

“Keith, you don’t have to-”

He gets a familiar flat look in response. “It wraps around to your back.“ Keith informs him bluntly. “You can’t reach it.”

Shiro almost opens his mouth to defend his flexibility but he grudgingly admits that Keith is right. It’s been a long day, he is stiff and sore, and while he might be able to manage were he in his best shape, that is something he is most emphatically not at the moment. Still, he doesn’t move to take his armor off.

“It will get infected.” Keith says. “By space germs.” Despite everything, there is the slightest bit of wonder in Keith’s eyes at that. Space. They are in space. Farther than they ever thought possible in their lifetimes. All of Shiro’s dreams come true in the most nightmarish way. 

Keith hesitantly reaches for Shiro’s armor and, with a sigh, Shiro removes his glove and breastplate but hesitates again at the neck of his bodysuit. “It’s ugly.” He says softly, knowing Keith will understand.

And then he strips his suit down to his waist, gritting his teeth as the torn, bloodied fabric pulls on the wound.

He doesn’t meet Keith’s eyes, just stares at his knees, the white armor on his thigh smeared red with his blood. Beside him, Keith huffs a sharp exhale that Shiro has learned over the years is an expression of disgust. He fights the urge to curl up and hide, forces himself to keep sitting straight and tall.

Out of the corner of his eye he can see Keith’s hand, shaking, as it reaches out and lightly touches the skin around the brand on his shoulder, traces down the claw marks on his arm, drifts out of sight to where fingers lightly dance around the marks left behind by countless battles and beatings. Ugly doesn’t even begin to describe it.

It wouldn’t be so bad, Shiro thinks, if he knew  _ how _ he got them. As it is, very few of his scars have more than disjointed flashes of memory attached to them, if that, so that sometimes it feels like this battered broken thing isn’t even  _ his _ .

He becomes aware of a low, rumbling snarl coming from beside him and, despite himself, he turns to look. Keith is staring at the brand, eyes blazing with anger. It wasn’t disgust, he realizes. It is  _ rage _ . 

Keith looks up at him, a thousand vengeful promises in his eyes that he doesn’t have the words to articulate and Shiro’s throat closes up all over again, this time with a very different emotion. Even if he can’t remember it all, his heart tells him that he has been alone for  _ so long _ . And here is Keith, ready to take on an Empire for him.

He blinks back the sudden sting of tears, reaches out, and pulls Keith in for a hug. Keith flails for a moment, knocking the bundle of space gauze to the ground, before he settles and wraps his arms around Shiro’s chest, burying his face into Shiro’s sweaty armpit. Shiro focuses on feeling the rise and fall of Keith’s back beneath his human arm, the light puffs of breath against his skin, the heat radiating from the smaller body pressed up against his. All the things that assure him that this is real. Not wishful thinking or a fever dream brought on by a space infection. Real.

**Author's Note:**

> I realize they don’t get around to doing much wound cleaning but the intent was there!


End file.
